“Open the door and let the man out!” shouted Phil, with great presence of mind. But no one seemed to have the power to move.
One sweep of the powerful claw and one side of the lad’s clothes was literally stripped from him, though he had managed to shrink back just far enough to save himself from the needle like claws of the tiger.
At this moment men came rushing from other parts of the tent. Some bore iron rods, while two or three carried tent poles and sticks—anything that the circus men could lay their hands upon.
Mr. Sparling was in the lead of the procession that dashed through the crowd, hurling the people right and left as they ran.
With every spring of the tiger Phil was being thrown against the bars with terrific force, but still he clung to the tail that was wrapped about his arm, hanging on with desperate courage.
Though the lad was getting severe punishment, he was accomplishing just what he had hoped for—to keep Bengal busy until help arrived to liberate the unconscious trainer, who lay huddled against the bars on the opposite side of the cage.
“Poke one of the tent poles in to him and let him bite it!” roared Mr. Sparling. “Half a dozen of you get around behind the cage and when we have his attention one of you pull Bob out. Keep your poles in the opening when you open the door, so Bengal doesn’t jump out. Everybody stand back!”
The commands of the showman came out like so many explosions of a pistol. But it had its effect. His men sprang to their work like machines.
In the meantime Mr. Sparling himself had grabbed the tail of the beast, taking a hold higher up than Phil’s.
“Pull the boy off. He’s hanging on like a bull dog. If you had half his sense you’d have put a stop to this mix-up minutes ago.”